Frozen Till He Comes
by CaughtOutInTheDark
Summary: When Sherlock is kidnapped, John has to figure out where he is. But Sherlock's body temperature is dropping and he knows that it won't be long until he freezes to death. Non slash, but strong friendship, probably. T for safety. Now with a part two on what happens afterwards...
1. Thirty Seven

**I haven't uploaded anything in a while, so sorry to anyone who has me on author alert, but here's a new story... if you read the last one, you'll realise that they both deal with really cold conditions. I have no idea why I've written two similar scenarios in a row. My username should be 'ILoveFreezingPoorSherlockAnd JohnHalfToDeath' or something.**

**But please read and review if you have time, thank you!**

_Thirty seven degrees Celsius is equivalent to normal body temperature. The internal organs function properly and the person feels no obvious distress or discomfort._

John didn't understand what had happened. One moment, Sherlock had been standing next to him on the pavement outside 221B, criticising Molly Hooper's appearance. The next - _whumph_. He'd gone. Vanished. Or more precisely, a car had driven up. The door had swung open. Sherlock had been swept off his feet and thrown inside. The engine had squealed. And it had driven off.

Stupefied, the army doctor, now alone, could only stare as the sleek black car turned the corner, disappearing from sight.

"Wh-aa?" He stuttered to himself. "What the... hell...?"

He shook himself and his common sense bounced back. Instantly, he was furious at himself. He'd just allowed something terrible to happen – allowed Sherlock to get himself taken away by some random people – and he'd watched it all without raising a finger. He hadn't even noted the number plate.

_Stupid fool. No use chasing it now, you'd never catch up. _

Growling in frustration and kicking himself, John pulled out his phone and dialled the detective. His hands were slippery with sweat and he was shaking.

_It can't be that bad... I shouldn't get so worked up..._

Sherlock wasn't picking up. That either meant he wasn't bothered enough to, or he couldn't. John guessed that the latter was more probable given the circumstances. He struggled even now to think straight, but realised that Lestrade's help would be invaluable.

The detective inspector answered almost immediately.

"John, mate! What's up?" Lestrade sounded relaxed, despite his recent workload.

"They've got Sherlock - a car pulled up and snatched him away and I didn't get the number plate – I think he's in danger – I don't know who they are though – but I need you here now – I –"

"Woah. Slow down. John, take it easy. What do you mean? He's been taken...?"

"Kidnapped. Don't you understand? It's pretty urgent I think – he's not answering his phone." John could hear the panic in his voice and it was evident that Lestrade could too.

"Right, where are you?"

"Outside my flat. Baker Street."

"I'll be there soon. You just try and keep calm."

The line went dead.

Slowly, John made his way upstairs into the apartment. The main room was just how the two of them had left it. Sheets of paper were strewn on the floor. Jumpers were lying abandoned on chairs. Generally, the place was a tip. Except now, Sherlock wasn't here to make it worse.

John sank into his favourite armchair, still trembling. He tried to calm himself by closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, but for some reason, all he could picture was Sherlock. Where was he now? Was he hurt? Was he in control of the situation?

The questions circled round and round his head until he felt dizzy. He took a swig of water from the kitchen, splashing some on his face, and dried off with the hand towel. Returning, he noticed his laptop on the table, and suddenly thought it would be a good idea to visit Sherlock's website. Maybe this wasn't a spur of the chance attack. Maybe Sherlock had been expecting it. John hoped so desperately. If that was the case, his friend would have a slight advantage.

Disappointingly, there were no new posts on the website. John bit his lip. By force of habit, he directed the page to his own blog. As the laptop loaded the information, he heard the sirens outside and Lestrade coming up the stairs, two steps at a time. He entered, panting.

"John. Are you alright?"

"_Me?_" The blonde haired man was taken aback. "Of course I am."

"Good. So you're okay to give us information?"

"O-Obviously. Where do I start?"

"Do you think this attack could have been planned?"

John shrugged, trying to act casual.

"Well, it was unexpected. I've just checked his website. It all seems normal. And Sherlock... If he knew this was going to happen, he certainly didn't tell me, Greg."

He turned his gaze to the laptop screen for a moment and frowned.

Lestrade was asking him something else; something to do with the car, but his words fell on deaf ears.

"...What is it?"

Staring intently at the screen, John had turned a shade paler.

Wordlessly, he turned his laptop towards Lestrade.

"Oh, God."

Somebody had hacked into John's blog and set up a live anonymous feed. The picture was startlingly clear. Sherlock was strapped into a fixed chair, in a plain whitewashed room. There was a deep cut etched on his cheek and the blood was trickling down freely. There were other spatters of crimson on his white shirt. And finally, there was a wire in his arm, attached to a screen that gave the reading of a decimal number, 36.70

And that number was dropping gradually.

Lestrade didn't seem to understand.

"Well... this doesn't look good but at least we know he's alive."

John shook his head sadly and pointed at the number. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out the machine was monitoring his friend's body temperature. He voiced his fears out loud and Lestrade gulped.

"So... you mean he's in a cold room?"

"It's probably not too cold at the moment, but the attackers will probably drop the temperature slowly." John tried to keep a professional tone. "I'd say, at the rate his body's cooling... we've got around five hours before... before it's too late."

Five hours until Sherlock died.

***dramatic music* Also, I am really not a scientist, so with all the body temperature reading stuff, I don't know how accurate I am. I did a _little _bit of research...**


	2. Thirty Six

**I'm reeling off chapters pretty fast - number three is on it's way soon too. Thanks for the response so far! I love waking up to all the alerts and reviews. I hope you enjoy this...**

_At thirty six degrees Celsius, goose bumps appear on the skin, so that the hairs on the body can stand erect, and trap as much warmth as possible._

Police were at the flat.

The live feed was being monitored and scrutinised by several of the police force's laptops, while John stared down at his own one. Sherlock was still struggling. His mouth was moving, forming words, but there was no sound. He was looking past the camera, presumably at his captor.

"You getting this?" Lestrade called out to his fellow workers from across the room.

John was trying to lip-read as well, but, as ever, Sherlock was speaking too fast for him to catch up.

"I've caught a few words." Anderson answered, surprising everyone. He was_ helping_? "I think he said 'well done' and 'criminal'." It didn't help much, but John smiled at him gratefully for his efforts.

"Right." Lestrade said. "We're recording this footage, so we can call some lip-readers in to – Jesus!"

The last exclamation was drawn in conjunction with a masked figure, clad in a black furry overcoat, stepping into shot and punching Sherlock in the stomach mercilessly. John could almost hear his flatmate groan as he doubled over, spitting out blood. There was another slap to the face and Sherlock nodded weakly, as if obeying a command. The mysterious figure withdrew, and John refrained from cursing him out loud, acutely aware that all eyes were on him and his reaction. His face set like stone. These people would pay dearly.

He tried to clear his mind. He would be no use to Sherlock if his vision was clouded in red. Instead, he looked back at the temperature monitor. 36.16. The signs were already showing. Sherlock's arms were covered in goose bumps and his face was whiter than usual: a stark contrast to the runnel of dark red blood falling like tears off his chin.

Lestrade approached John warily, unsure what reaction he would get.

"John?"

"He's been there for fifteen minutes and he's already dropped by... half a degree. If that number reaches twenty seven – well, he'll stop breathing."

Lestrade shuffled awkwardly on the spot, standing above where John sat, staring, as if in a trance, at the decreasing number.

"It'll be okay. He's survived worse, I'm sure. We've got the whole of the force out searching."

John finally tore his gaze from the screen and put his head in his hands, hiding his face from sight.

"It's not enough." He mumbled. "Only he would be able to figure out where he is, and he's not here he's... there." He gestured at his laptop and ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired.

Lestrade patted him on the shoulder.

"Look, at least we can see him. And if he knows where he is, he'll tell us somehow." There was a buzz of activity now in the flat as three more people entered. "Ah, look. The lip-readers are here. Sherlock might have given some useful information."

"And what if he didn't?" John asked coldly.

"We need to think positive. You know Sherlock; he's bound to say _something_ with meaning."

Lestrade went away to greet the new arrivals. John straightened up, in the hope that he would start to 'think positive'.

But he couldn't shake the thought that Sherlock barely said anything to him with meaning, because half the time, John didn't know what was going on.

And the reading was at 35.93.

-.-

First stage, you form goose bumps.

Sherlock wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what was happening. At this rate, he would lose consciousness in about an hour and a half. The room wasn't that cold yet, but every so often the temperature would crank down by a degree. He guessed it to be around 7°C currently, but that could only be a guess, because at the moment his body was crying out in pain at the way it had been handled. His cheek was on fire and his stomach felt like it was bleeding internally. He was grateful for the wound on the side of his face – the pain would no doubt keep him awake for longer – but he could have done without the cruel punch directed at his abdomen.

The truth was he had never felt so defenceless. He didn't even know where he was. The few clues around him would have been enough for him to work out his precise location – but he just couldn't work it out. The webcam on the tripod a few feet away would be recording his every move. Hopefully it would have been discovered by now. They would be aiming to show John the live footage, most likely, so they would probably hack into his blog.

Now though, Sherlock needed his blogger more than ever. He knew that his colleague was slightly above average intelligence, but there were no clues to help discover where he was. Somehow, he had to communicate helpful information without talking. If he did speak... he knew that the pain inflicted to his body would be agonising.

The masked man was a couple of metres from him, face turned in his direction. At least he had a coat. He would probably leave when he felt too cold – something that Sherlock couldn't do. Behind the webcam was another man, who needed no introduction, though Sherlock could barely believe that he was still alive. He was grinning from ear to ear, smirking in the detective's direction.

"Soon you'll be all cold hearted like me, dear Sherlock. Cold hearted – get it?" He laughed, and once again Sherlock was reminded of how much of a madman this consultant criminal was. He glared, and, though he hated to admit it, wished that John would come soon.

He was his only hope.


	3. Thirty Five

**Okay, so I updated _very_ quickly. I'd just like to thank Raychaell Dionzeros, Prothoe, briongloid fiodoir (twice!) and ImAProudMudblood for their supportive reviews. And everyone else putting this on alert etc.  
I feel like I'm at the BAFTA's, so I'd better let you read on now! It's a bit short and boring, but hopefully the pace will pick up soon.**

_Once internal body temperature reaches thirty-five degrees Celsius, the person begins shivering. This action is an automatic reflex of the body's, as any amount of exercise will help a little in quickening the circulation and warming the blood._

Half an hour came and went too quickly for John's liking. His attention was fully on his laptop, his eyes scanning tirelessly for anything that could help him discover Sherlock's whereabouts.

Nothing. So far, nothing.

He growled in frustration involuntarily. Sherlock was depending on him and all he could do was sit there. He hated it.

Lestrade came over with a slip of paper and handed it over so John could take a look. His face was unreadable. John studied the handwritten words. The lip-readers had excelled themselves at deciphering what Sherlock had said. If they were unsure on a word, they had shown the different possibilities:

***This is your master plan, is it? I expected better, I have to admit... yes... of course... well done, very criminal indeed... fairy tales, obviously. What else could they be? I know you hate staying _alive/alone_, so why do you always seem to end up doing just that...? No... I have the advantage of you. John. He'll find me... how dull of you to say so. And how _credible/predictable_... No, he's not part of this... so you keep saying... so, where am? I'd say perhaps an _o/h/or_ –***

He'd been cut off at that point when he'd been punched hard, to stop giving clues about his whereabouts.

Lestrade watched John's face cross from confusion to shock to disbelief and at last defeat, in the space of a handful of seconds. The army doctor looked up slowly once he had finished reading.

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade asked gently.

"Somehow... Moriarty's still alive. Sherlock told me he was dead... but he's obviously doing his best to try 'staying alive'." John tried to smile, but ended up grimacing, memories of that terrible day still inflicting mental injury.

"Right." Lestrade sounded weary. "At least we now know who's got him."

"Yeah, and he happens to be an evil mastermind." John pointed out unhelpfully.

"John, look. If we want to stand a chance of finding Sherlock, we have to focus on the positives."

"I know, you've told me."

"And miracles do happen. We've seen one for real." John looked blank. "We thought Sherlock had died. But he returned. Aren't you grateful for that?"

John blushed a little.

"This hasn't got anything to do with the investigation." On his laptop, he noted that Sherlock was shivering a little, the reading standing at 34.78.

"Yes, but just bear that in mind next time you feel defeated or down. Sherlock never gives up without a fight. If any one had been kidnapped other than him, I wouldn't really believe they had much of a chance. But this is Sherlock. He'll find a way of telling us where he is - after he's worked it out, of course."

John looked away from the laptop screen and back at the detective inspector.

"Sorry, Greg. I'm being difficult. I'm just... concerned, that's all. I really don't want to lose him again."

Lestrade nodded sympathetically and hesitated, unsure what to say next. On the end, he opted for the simple approach.

"You won't lose him. We'll find him. In the meantime, if there's anything you need, I'm right here."

"Thanks."

Lestrade left the transcribed message with John, rejoining his team. And John began desperately thinking of what Sherlock could have meant by that last word. A place beginning with 'o', 'h' or... 'or'...

Orphanage...? Hospital...? Hotel...?

34.23.

Time was running out.


	4. Thirty Four

**Just to make it clear, this is set post-reichenbach. So... just in case people were wondering. This chapter's a bit longer. I'm trying to slowly increase the length.  
****  
And thank you to those reviewing. If there's any areas for improvement, I'll be happy to hear from anyone, too. Like: 'increase your vocabulary knowledge!', which I know I need to do. Thanks for reading!**

_The body continues shivering at thirty four degrees. The skin pales further and there will be a huge urge to move to a warmer area._

The shivering was irritating Sherlock beyond measure.

It was a constant reminder of his situation and that he had very little time to get out of it. From behind the webcam, Moriarty was rubbing his gloved hands together. _He_ was lucky. He had a huge furry parka on. Sherlock figured that he was being mocked by his nemesis.

There had been a good half hour silence, but now it was broken by the slick Irish voice.

"You know, Sherlock, in a few minutes I'll be taking my leave. It's a little too cold in here for my liking. I would have thought you wanted to join me, but you seem nice and comfortable where you are, so I'll let you enjoy it. Just to make it clear, I want you to know I don't really _want_ you dead. I mean, if you're killed, I'm not going to prevent it or anything. It's just that I want to... test you. To see if you and Johnny boy can figure a way out by yourselves." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, still knowing that he wasn't permitted to talk. "Yes, that's right. I want John to find you without any help. So I've created a diversion that means the police will leave him in peace. That'll weaken your advantage. Now we're both more equal."

Sherlock stayed silent. Moriarty rolled his eyes.

"You can talk, okay? As long as you don't give anything away."

"Give anything away? I don't know where I am in the first place." Sherlock's voice shook slightly and he convinced himself that it was purely down to the temperature. Moriarty shrugged and motioned for him to continue. "I don't care what you do to me. Just don't hurt John. He's no part of this."

"And yet he is. And whose fault is that? But you don't _care_ what happens to you? Really?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Alright." He snapped his fingers and – BAM. Sherlock felt several ribs on his right crack as a fist impacted his side.

"Argh..." He moaned. "No. You know what I – "BAM."A-A-Argh!"

"I'm rather enjoying this. Now. Beg."

"W-Wha–" BAM. "ARGH!" BAM. "NO!" BAM. Sherlock's voice dropped to a whisper. His body sagged. "Please, J-John. Get me out –" BAM. "Please... John. I'll... let you know the lottery numbers –" BAM. He flinched. "John..." BAM. "John..." BAM. "Oh God, stop. Please stop. I... I..." BAM. "I take it back. I don't want you hurting me. P-Please."

Moriarty smirked and the masked man finally withdrew. Sherlock felt sick and dizzy. His body hurt. A lot.

"When I said beg, I was rather hoping you'd direct it at _me_ rather than precious Dr Watson. But I reckon you learnt your lesson all the same – never say something you're going to regret later. Elementary, really."

Sherlock scowled. His shirt was drenched in his own blood. Even if he was set free now, he doubted he would remain standing.

_I've regretted a lot of things in my life, but saying I value John's safety more than my own is not one of them. Remember Reichenbach?_

But he didn't say that out loud because he was all too aware of the consequences. Moriarty sensed that he was the one holding all the cards now.

"I'd better be off now. In case I don't see you again, it was nice knowing you. Goodbye, Sherlock."

Without another word, he walked calmly out of the room. The masked man gave what seemed to Sherlock to be a disgusted look, and then followed his employer out, punching the tied up man in the stomach one last time for good measure.

Sherlock groaned.

The door clanked shut behind him.

He knew that the kidnappers would now be looking at the webcam too, observing his every move. If he mouthed out his location to John, he doubted he would live for very long.

And besides, he still wasn't sure where he was being held.

He futilely tried to calm his mind – but all he could do was panic. He struggled in the chair, but the bonds held him fast.

_Oh God._ Even his thoughts were reverberating in his head fearfully. He looked straight at the webcam and spoke very slowly, so his friend could make out the words clearly.

"John. I can't tell you where I am but... but if you work it out I'll... I'll... I don't know what I'd do, but... for now, I just need you." He hated saying it, but it couldn't be helped. This might be the last time he ever spoke. Remembering that, he added, quite a lot faster, "If I don't make it, I want you to know that none of it's your fault – just in case you feel guilty. And you've been a fantastic f-friend and – " Moriarty would be hearing this. Sherlock didn't want to sound too weak, too human. "I just hope that you've forgiven me over the Reichenbach incident. That's all. I've felt guilty about that, so, um, I'm sorry. And now you're going to be watching me here, probably with no idea of my location. I hope you aren't mad at me for all this. So, that's all I'm really going to be allowed to say. You aren't the only one listening in on my conversation."

He finally stopped, mid flow, not wanting emotions to get the better of him.

Time passed slowly as he thought harder than he had ever done before.


	5. Thirty Three

**Apologies for keeping you all waiting. It hadn't occurred to me until now that _I've_ got to actually come up with some clues and answers about where Sherlock's being held, so I was stuck at a dead-end for a bit. At least I have some idea now... even if I don't know whether it's good. **

**As ever, reviews are really appreciated!**

_Thirty three degrees is when the body shivers even harder, as a last resort. The person's teeth will start chattering loudly and their fingers, toes, nose and ears will redden as the blood circulates to keep them warm._

The explosion, though at the opposite end of Baker Street, was still loud enough to come crashing through the ears of all in 221B. It was even enough to send tables, chairs and people onto the floor.

Commotion erupted.

"What –" Lestrade ran to the window, everyone else at his heels. There was a spontaneous gasp as shock and horror rippled through the group. The whole of a house, a stone's throw from where they were positioned, had been reduced to rubble. People were screaming and crying, pedestrians were racing over and neighbouring houses were on fire. Sherlock and John's flat had only just escaped the same fate.

"Everyone, grab your coats." Lestrade took control, in that second proving his worth as a detective inspector. The handful of officers began rushing down the stairs. John grabbed Lestrade's arm as the older man began following the others.

"Greg..."

Lestrade bit his lip.

"I'm sorry. But these people need us."

John shook his head.

"I'm not trying to stop you. It's just... I really want to help, but Sherlock's my friend and –"

"No. You have to stay here. With the lip-readers. We'll have ambulances out there. Focus on finding Sherlock. I want to assist you... but this has to take priority."

John nodded. Lestrade took one last look at Sherlock on the screen and John, now nearly entirely on his own. He bit his lip, guilt gnawing at him, then turned his back and left.

The two lip-readers, a man and woman, shuffled awkwardly. Then, with a sudden alertness, they were staring at their screens and scrawling down words. John let his gaze slip back to his own laptop. Sherlock was talking again. And now he was being punched by the same masked man as before. Again. Again. And again. Finally, his whole body sagged and he seemed to be pleading.

John didn't show anything. He didn't show the absolute fury and despair twisting into a tight knot in his stomach.

The only noise in the flat were the pencils, as they scratched into the surfaces of the two notebooks, etching Sherlock's words down as he spoke.

For a while, there seemed to be little activity in the cold room, save for Sherlock's obvious muted pain. Finally, the black haired man's eyes followed someone behind the camera leaving the room. A moment later, the masked man crossed the screen and, going by how Sherlock visibly relaxed, he too had gone.

Now Sherlock was speaking words very slowly, staring directly at the webcam. John could feel the gaze penetrating his own. He made out these words easily enough:

_'John. I can't tell you where I am but... but if you work out where I am I'll... I'll... I don't know what I'd do, but... for now, I just need you.'_

The next few sentences were spoken too fast for John to make out, but the one he had just heard was enough to make him struggle to compose himself.

_You need me, Sherlock? Really? You would never say that. You shouldn't have started now. I can't even help you._ He thought bitterly. _The police force have gone._

Sherlock seemed to have finished what he was saying and sat on the chair, resignedly.

The lip-readers were swapping what they had written, to ensure they had caught everything correctly.

John could only look at his laptop. The reading stood at 32.51. Unable to move, Sherlock was shivering harder than before. His nose was bright red – which, on his very white face, was nearly comical. Nearly.

_Tell me where you are, Sherlock. You know as much as me that I can't – I just can't figure it out on my own. _

His thoughts were interrupted as the woman went over to him and showed exactly what Sherlock had said.

John laughed out when he read the bit about Sherlock telling him lottery numbers, and the woman and man shared a concerned look as the sound bordered on the hysterical.

"Would you like me to make a cup of tea, Doctor Watson?" The woman offered.

John, still chortling, nodded gratefully.

"One sugar, thanks." He clamped a hand over his mouth, laughter still escaping. While one of them went to get him tea, the other tentatively asked if he was alright.

John's laughter had dissolved and was now replaced by shaky breathing. The doctor looked like he was on the verge of tears. He nodded in response to the question and stood up.

"Can you excuse me for a minute?"

Without waiting for a response, he walked into his bedroom, laptop in hand, and shut the door.

The woman and man shared another concerned look.

-.-

John lay on his bed, face down, the laptop on his pillow in front of him. He stared at the white bedspread below him and had to close his eyes tightly to get the image of Sherlock lying covered in a similar white sheet, dead, out of his thoughts.

He could hear himself inhaling and exhaling too fast, too loudly. Tears were pricking at his eyes, but refused to leak out. He looked at the screen. Sherlock was just sitting there. As though he'd given up already. Shivering badly.

32.42.

Sherlock's words echoed strangely around his head. _None of it's your fault... you've been a fantastic friend... I just need you. _

I just need you.

Sherlock would _never_ say something like that. He had never fully relied on John before this. And now that he had...

"Idiot." John growled at the detective. "You... _idiot_. Dammit, why do you do this to me? Three years I wait. _Three_. And now you're going to die. For real." He punched the pillow, just missing the laptop. "And it's – All. My. Fault." He added, fist smacking down to emphasise each word.

_I should have reacted quicker. Should have chased the car…_

There was a rushed knock and John barely had enough time to sit up straight before the male lip-reader walked in, as white as a ghost.

"What?" The doctor queried dumbly, distracted by other pressing matters.

"T-There was a t-text." The man stammered. "Some bloke called J-Jim. He threatened me and my c-colleague. Said he'd k-kill our families if..."

John was beyond surprise.

"Go." He said weakly. "Both of you. I can do this myself. Thank you for your help."

Eager to check on his wife and children, the trembling man rushed out without hesitation. The woman followed him, without a thought in the world other than to protect her son.

John heard the door slam.

He looked at Sherlock in the chair.

32.38.

Both of them alone. Isolated. Cut off.

"What do I do?" He whispered, pleading.

_What _can_ I do?_


	6. Thirty Two

**Aaaah! Reviews make me so happy :) I hope this chapter's alright too!**

**Just quickly: Sherlock's really out of character when he can't remember a place name - but I wanted to make it harder for John to work out. Mwhahahahahaha! I hate myself sometimes...**

_At thirty two degrees, the body's thermoregulatory centre stops working and as a result the body loses heat at a constant rate, whilst the person doesn't feel any colder, but loses feeling._

Sherlock couldn't feel his hands. Or his feet. He couldn't feel much at all, to be honest, except for a numbing sensation. He was so cold, and yet he had stopped shivering.

He knew what was happening. He had hypothermia and would probably develop frostbite in a while. He was frozen to the core and couldn't even wiggle his fingers to warm up now. It was as though someone had replaced his blood with melted ice.

He wouldn't be able to form words properly anymore either. The muscles in his face would be too slow to respond. Ways to communicate to his blogger were rapidly running out. He focused his mind. How long had he been here? At an estimate, he predicted just over two and a half hours. Soon he would drift down into a sleep he'd probably never wake from.

He still hadn't figured out where he –

Oh.

The truth was so blindingly obvious he would have kicked himself, had he been able to feel and move his leg.

Of course.

But he was such an idiot because the name of the damn place had slipped his mind. Sherlock Holmes had temporarily forgotten a name. He had never ever done that before and he felt panic rising as he still couldn't remember.

John would know though... wouldn't he? If he was given the clue.

The words at the far end of the room were his only hope. If John saw them somehow, he would understand. It wasn't a difficult leap and surely even such an underused brain would be able to decipher the message – hopefully.

Sherlock tried to remove all doubt. This was too obvious. Even his friend could work it out, _surely_. He had to discreetly give the information. John would know where to find him if he got it, but that was a huge if.

There was only one thing for it. Sherlock straightened up, with an intense amount of difficulty, and began relaying the words silently, looking into the camera. All John needed to do was _observe_ for once in his life rather than just _see_.

He'd be able to figure it out. Just this once. Maybe.

_Please...?_

-.-

John was at a loss. Since the lip-readers had gone, he had been sitting sullenly on his bed, the laptop resting on his knees, watching the temperature reading fall.

31.63.

He could think of nothing except the constant reminder that below 32°C, Sherlock's whole body would become numb.

Fat lot of use he was being, not even attempting to help. But the truth was, he didn't know _how_ to. He felt so helpless, and that only added to his mounting guilt. Here he was, sitting here, comfortably warm, taking the temperature for granted... whilst Sherlock –

He reluctantly moved his eyes from the reading to his flatmate.

Sherlock wasn't shivering anymore. His lips and fingers were tinged blue and he kept blinking hard, as though there was something in his eye. He wouldn't even be able to lift his hand up to wipe away whatever it was irritating him.

Maybe he was fighting back tears.

The very thought disturbed John so much that he felt compelled to look away.

"Don't cry, Sherlock." He muttered to himself. "You're making me feel a thousand times more guilty."

He stood up, leaving the laptop on the bed, and walked out. He paced up and down the main room, trying to think like the great detective and, unsurprisingly, failing.

"So, where would a man like Moriarty take you?" He asked out loud. "He always plans ahead, so... so what does that _mean_? You're in a coldish room. And someone is slowly making it colder. So... there's-there's some sort of cooling system in there." He said falteringly. "But that's obvious already. Think, _think_! A cooling system means… nothing! _Dammit_! Why are you so clever?! You'd work it out in a second. Why can't _I_? I just... I JUST CAN'T DO IT!" He ended up shouting, and his hand lashed out, sending anything on the coffee table, chiefly Sherlock's half empty mug of tea and a couple of the detective's important documents, flying onto the floor.

The mug hit the floor hard and broke in two.

John's anger left him at precisely the same moment he heard the crack of the ceramic. He looked down, momentarily bewildered, then realised what he'd done. He'd given Sherlock that mug for Christmas. The only Christmas Sherlock had accepted any of his gifts.

Now it lay broken at his feet.

Tremendously guilty now, John bent down and picked up the two pieces. He stood, staring at it. It was a fairly plain mug. The only decoration was the printed words on the pure white background: _Shut Up. Genius At Work._ John remembered seeing it in a shop one November morning and promptly thinking of Sherlock. So he'd bought it. And Sherlock had loved it. The only present from John he would ever cherish… and now John had smashed it.

John calmly put the broken object back on the table, gathered the papers and dumped them back on too, sat in his favourite chair, covered his face with his hands and wept.

**'Sherlock's _half empty _mug of tea'...? I'm such a pessimist.**


	7. Thirty One

**Only a few more chapters to go... **

**Prothoe: That last review of yours has left me smiling all day :)**

_The whole body begins slowly shutting down at thirty one degrees, unknown to the victim, who will begin to find it hard to stay awake._

John wasn't sure just how long he sat there, crying silently, uncontrollably. Eventually, he forced himself to calm down. He was an _army _doctor for heaven's sake! He'd lived through wars. Seen hundreds of good people die despite his best efforts to save them. He had to be tough.

_But Sherlock – _

Well, he couldn't just sit here and do nothing but cry. That was both selfish and pointless. With no other plan, he went back in his bedroom. He grabbed the laptop, seeing the reading fall to a new low of 30.70, put on his coat, stuffed his service revolver in a pocket before hurrying down the stairs and onto the street. At once, he fancied he could see the car rounding the corner and snatching an unknowing Sherlock before heading towards an equally unknown destination. Of course, it was only a figment of his imagination but, still, he could scarcely believe that it had happened for real only a couple of hours ago.

Police were racing around everywhere. People were definitely in shock; the explosion had been massive. Briefly, John wondered whether this had anything to do with Jim Moriarty. But he couldn't focus on that right now.

Quickly, he thought of all the obvious places that this particular car would have been heading for. Down the way it had gone, to the right of their apartment, there would be the park, the station, St Barts –

The hospital would be the best starting point. It was very obvious – way too obvious for Moriarty – but thinking back to that devastating day three and a half years ago… it was better searching there than nowhere. And besides, Molly would be of some use. He would fee less alone at least.

John hailed a cab and got in.

While he drew nearer to the building, he risked a look at the live feed, apprehension mounting.

30.53.

This wasn't good. The temperature in the room must be dropping faster now. At this rate, John only had another hour – maximum – to find his poor colleague.

Sherlock's condition certainly wasn't improving, to say the least. His nose was no longer red. It was just as paper-white as the rest of his face. He was gritting his teeth in concentration. Or was it impatience? On the left side of his face, a half frozen tear was slowly trickling down, leaving its mark. He was still blinking unnaturally. Trying not to lose composure completely? Or maybe the solitary tear was one of pure frustration.

John would have liked to have believed the last thought, but guessed that the former was more likely.

It wasn't right, though. Sherlock wouldn't cry or hold back tears without good reason. As far as John's knowledge extended, Sherlock wasn't afraid of death. It was odd. Unless Sherlock really _was _scared out of his wits. But that was unlikely –

"St Barts!" The taxi driver called out, eager to find another more talkative fare.

John snapped out of his reverie and got out, the laptop still open in his hands. Part of him was deeply afraid that if he took his eyes off Sherlock for more than a few moments, the man would slip away. But that was irrational. Sort of.

Still, he kept an eye on his flatmate as he paid the cabbie and walked inside the hospital. He felt his gun, tucked snugly in his coat pocket, and was glad that he had it on him. He needed that extra sense of security.

30.26.

When the reading hit under thirty, Sherlock would become unconscious. When the reading hit twenty seven, Sherlock would stop breathing. And if that reading hit twenty five… there would be absolutely no hope.

He was so absorbed in staring at the number dropping on the laptop that he didn't notice himself going automatically over to Molly until it was too late and they collided.

"Oh, sorry!" Molly apologised immediately, though technically the fault lay with _him _for making her drop her pile of research books.

"No, no. Sorry, it was me."

John put the laptop briefly on the table, picked up the reading material and handed them back to her.

"Haven't seen you in a while, John."

They both knew why and the tension built up around them like static electricity. But John didn't have time to sort that out yet.

With more than a little hint of urgency, he took a calming breath and began.

"Listen, Molly. I'm really glad to see you… and I'm sorry about what happened. I overreacted. But you see, I'm kind of in trouble… well. Sherlock is."

"W-What?"

He could hear her concern a mile away. She really cared about Sherlock, even though they both knew he would never feel entirely the same way.

John continued as Molly baulked on seeing the image on his pc.

"I need your help."


	8. Thirty

**I would have updated tomorrow, but theamatuerartist changed my mind :)**

**Thank you everyone for reading so far!**

_At thirty degrees Celsius, the person falls into a coma._

Sherlock was battling to stay awake. He was gritting his teeth in determination and still managing to silently relay information to John. He could only hope that his friend had figured out what he was doing already, because he didn't know how long he could keep this up. Suddenly, with no warning, he felt a trickle of liquid run down his cheek.

_No! _He thought. _Now if I die, John will think I spent the last moments of my life crying… like a baby!_

The very thought repulsed him.

He was so cold…

His head drooped forwards sharply, as he lost the energy to support it, and he jerked it back up instantly. Whatever happened, he had to stay awake. Had to… His thoughts were turning into mush… he couldn't –

He growled – well, he could only manage a half whimper – in an attempt to motivate himself enough to keep conscious.

_I mustn't – I mustn't –_

He closed his eyes involuntarily and could feel reality slipping from him. With barely enough energy left, he reopened them, this time unable to stop his head drooping. He looked up at the camera.

_Keep your eyes fixed on it. As long as you're awake, you'll be – you'll be fine… where am I –? Oh, yes – I can't forget – focus – I just need to close my – close my eyes. Just – for a second – N-No… have to – I'll be f-fine –_

He could hear John clearly in his head screaming at him in desperation to 'fight it' and 'stay awake'…

_Stay…? Awake – away – alive – stay _alive_? Jim – no – I can't… Can't do it – I need to – close my eyes – _

Frantically, the last ounce of determination in his body urged him to keep looking at the camera.

_John – John can see me – need to stay a-awake… can't – argh – can't – can't end like this – not… alone –_

And suddenly he was falling into a dark abyss as his body gave up the losing struggle. Dimly, he was aware of John's voice at the back of his head. Just one final random line that had somehow overridden all other thoughts.

'Don't be… dead. Just for me. Stop it. Stop this.'

_I'm sorry, John._

And the darkness consumed him.

-.-

"FIGHT IT, SHERLOCK!" John was screaming at the screen, gesticulating wildly. Next to him, a rather worried Molly Hooper was watching intently. With no sense of embarrassment, not even noticing Molly's presence, John continued. "I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME! DON'T GIVE UP! GIVE ME A CLUE! WHERE ARE YOU?! STAY AWAKE! STAY AWAKE! NO! DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES! Please… no…"

His body sagged as Sherlock finally gave up the battle. His fist came down and hit the table. He shook his head dejectedly.

"It's no use. Now there's no way you can give us any clues!" He cried out, clearly talking to Sherlock rather than the young pathologist next to him.

"John..."

"He's such an _idiot_. Why didn't he give me any clue?"

"Okay, I think maybe you should... you know, calm down for a while."

John seemed to register her for the first time.

"Sorry." He noticed he was apologising too much, and despite the situation, he knew he had to sort out what had happened between them right now, or they would struggle to find Sherlock by cooperating.

He recalled the night when Sherlock had returned to him, seemingly from the dead. How John had been first relieved, then angry, and then relieved again. But once he had found out Mycroft and Molly had both been keeping it a secret from him for so long, he had lost it completely. He had gone first to Mycroft and shouted abuse and then to Molly and had done the same. She'd ended up in tears.

Of course, now he knew better. If anything, he should have vented all of his anger at Sherlock, not just Molly for taking orders.

"Molly, you know that I'm sorry about what happened. I'd never do it again. I'm just... really sorry. Can you forgive me?"

Molly bit her lip and nodded, staring at the ground.

"You were angry. Of course you were going to react that way."

"Yes, well, please don't take it personally."

"Yeah. I think we should be trying to find Sherlock. Why... why have you come to _me_?"

"I had the police with me, but there was a huge accident and they all left in a hurry."

"I saw the police cars going past."

29.88.

_God. What do I do?_

"I just thought that maybe you could help. Even if you can't... I don't want to do this on my own."

"I know. Can you tell me what happened from the start?"

John obliged and quickly sketched out everything that had happened that morning. He deliberately left out his personal emotional journey, because that would have taken all day to explain and he valued his own privacy.

Molly listened without interrupting, looking more worried by the second.

"So this can be accessed on any computer?"

John nodded and she left him for a minute to get her own laptop.

Meanwhile, John stared at his, watching the faint rise and fall of Sherlock's chest intently, afraid that it might stop.

Any deductions needed to be made really quickly. Otherwise...

He shivered. And unlike Sherlock, it wasn't from the cold.


	9. Twenty Nine

**EmyKlevers: Of course you can cry if you want, but please don't be too sad! *hugs***

**theamatuerartist: Gosh, thank you, I'm thrilled you wrote that! I can't promise I'll update _every_ night but I'll try really really _really_ hard to :)**

**Now this chapter is long compared to the others...**

_At twenty nine degrees, the blood begins only to focus getting oxygen to the essential organs, to conserve as much energy as possible._

Both John and Molly were becoming desperate. The reading stood at 29.12 and John was regretting ever asking Molly for her assistance. She looked as terrible as he felt and she wasn't dealing well with the pressure.

The doctor tried not to think about how guilty Molly would feel if Sherlock… didn't make it. That would make _him _feel a thousand times worse – if it was possible for him to feel worse than he was already.

"He must have left us some clue." He announced. "He's a pain in the backside a lot of the time, being all mysterious, but he wouldn't keep us in the dark at a time like this." Molly simply nodded next to him. John pretended not to see the tears forming in her eyes as she watched the man she liked on the screen, being treated in such a horrible way. He continued. "We _have _to assume that he did leave a clue then, otherwise it's his own fault."

He felt a burning sense of shame sear through him as the last remark left the room in a state of uninviting silence. He watched Sherlock on the webcam, completely out for the count, unaware, with no input for the future. If he would live… or… or not live.

John cleared his throat apprehensively, knowing Molly was staring at him in shock.

"It's not his fault." He admitted after a pause. "It's mine. I should have gone after that car –" His voice caught and he looked down. Nervously, Molly patted his arm.

"You can't blame yourself."

John couldn't trust himself to talk. He shook his head and watched helplessly as the number slipped further to 29.03. Sherlock was chalk white now. With his head hanging down, his curly mop of black hair had tumbled forwards, partly obscuring his closed eyes. He looked peaceful. Like he was d-d –

"I'm just going to see –" John swallowed hard. "Going to check out if he's somewhere _here_. Do you – do you recognise –?" He swallowed again, drumming his fingers on the table with one hand and pointing to the screen with the other, still staring at his shoes.

"The room he's in?" Molly asked tentatively. He nodded. "No. Sorry."

"I'll-look-around-anyway." He blurted out, already half running out of the lab.

Molly watched him go.

"Okay." She said in a small voice.

-.-

John ran. He sprinted along the corridors, slamming doors open, gun at the ready, panicking. He _had _to find Sherlock, because if he didn't…

Some of the rooms were in use. There were cries of horror as he stepped into a class full of university students and teachers, staring petrified at the gun in his hands.

"I'm with the police!" He yelled every time, as he left one room and barged his way into another.

_Where _are _you, Sherlock?!_

He raced in and out of so many rooms, he lost track of where he was. All that mattered was finding his friend and, unless he was in this hospital, John was certain that he wouldn't be discovered in time.

Eventually, he reached a door at the far end of what was probably the last corridor in St Barts he hadn't yet rampaged through. Hands sweaty and shaking, breathing hard from his recent excursion, John reached out to the handle and pulled on it sharply.

Locked.

Tension crept through his body. He had an overwhelming sense that behind the door was something big. He took a couple of steps back and braced himself, before battering his shoulder against it as hard as he could. From the looks of things, John reckoned he had done more damage to himself than the plank of wood blocking his way. It wouldn't budge.

"SHERLOCK?" He cried out. "CAN YOU HEAR ME?" He was already expecting the silence he received. Even if Sherlock was in there, he was unconscious. Swearing, John pounded on the door. "If anyone's in there, open up! This is the police!" There was still no reply from within.

There was only one thing for it, so John calmly took out his gun and shot the lock off the door, which swung open. It was pitch black inside. Holding his gun up, he tiptoed forward and felt for a light switch.

"Sherlock?" He whispered.

His fingers finally found what he was searching for, but even before the light came on, he knew that the room wasn't cold enough…

The disappointment was instantaneous. John sank to his knees, A broom cupboard. All that effort for a _broom cupboard. _He spent a few seconds on the floor, hating himself for being so optimistic – and subsequently hating Lestrade for encouraging him to be. Then he stood up and plodded back to Molly.

She saw the dismal look on his face and knew without being told that his search had come to nothing.

"Have you got anywhere?" He asked.

_At least, _she noted, _he doesn't sound upset anymore. Just… tired._

To John's surprise she answered in the affirmative.

"I have to admit, I haven't found anything out as such, but I've replayed bits and… I just think it's out of character. Him blinking like that so he doesn't cry. He… I wouldn't have thought he'd be like that. Sherlock _never _cries."

"Me neither. I thought the same thing –"

Suddenly, it all fell into place.

John gasped. A flashback gripped him by the scruff of his neck and he watched and replayed the whole scene in a second.

-.-

_He can hear Sherlock clearly. _

"_Bought you a little 'getting to know you' present. Oh, it's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance – all to distract me from this."_

_John walks in through the changing room door, the explosives concealed under his furry coat. Sherlock is standing there, memory chip in hand (he lied about giving it to his brother!), a few metres from him, his expression morphing from betrayal to absolute hurt. Like a lost child._

"_Evening." John tries to stay calm, aware that he could be blown up into oblivion any moment. "This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"_

"_John." He can tell that Sherlock thinks _he's _this Moriarty person. But he's powerless to do anything about that. "What the hell –"_

"_Bet you never saw this coming. What… would you like me… to make him say next?"_

_He reveals the bombs and can almost see relief on Sherlock's face. As though 'dead John' is better than 'betrayer John'._

_And all this time, John has been silently communicating:_

_SOS… SOS…_

-.-

"John? What is it? Have you worked it out?"

Molly's eager voice sounded distant. John shook himself.

"Molly. You are a _genius. _Thank you. So much."

She looked confused, and blushed, not knowing what she had helped solve, watching John as he grabbed a piece of paper and pulled out a pen.

"God knows if we can get there in time, but we can work out where he is."

28.40.

"But John… what is it?"

"He was blinking Morse code."

**I'm not the greatest mystery writer. If you worked out what Sherlock had done already, then good on you! if you didn't, sorry. I probably didn't give enough clues in the text.**

**Also, when/if ('if' means I'm feeling extra cruel!) John finds Sherlock, should Sherlock be breathing? Review! I don't know what to write next! :)**


	10. Twenty Eight

**Since typing up the last chapter, I'm now learning Morse Code and it's all Sherlock's fault ! :D As ever, thank you for reviewing, alerting, or simply reading this.**

_At twenty eight degrees, the person's health deteriorates further and they begin wheezing for air. _

John was scrawling down on the paper as though his _own _life depended on it. Molly could only watch from the sidelines, feeling pretty useless.

Suddenly, he gave a cry of triumph and held up what looked, to her, like a series of dots and dashes.

"That's everything he said. Now I just need to write the letters…" He trailed off and bent over again, concentrating intently. Molly realised that John was very similar to Sherlock at times. Staying out of the way, she looked over his shoulder, noting how quickly he was translating the letters.

**_ . .  
**B.

**. _ . .  
**L.

**. _  
**A…

John finished with a speed she would have not have believed possible had she not witnessed it herself. They both read the decoded message.

_a nun with a gun, blankety blank, julius geezer, justcallmehandsome, silver blaze, tecktal, zuider zee…_

_What does _that_ all mean? _Molly pondered. She didn't have long to think things through, however, because John was already shrugging his coat on again and weighing the gun in his hands. He grabbed his laptop and closed it, holding it under an arm. There was determination in his eyes.

"Molly, thanks. I wouldn't have got it if it wasn't for you. And if Sherlock doesn't feel grateful either, when I get to him I'll knock some sense into him for you."

"But –" Stupidly, her mind went blank. "I'll… I'll come with you."

"No." John was firm. Seeing the crestfallen look on her face, he added, "You watch that laptop. If someone starts attacking me, phone the police…" He was already halfway through the door and paused, remembering. "Oh, and…" He ran back and quickly jotted an address, which he handed to Molly solemnly. "This is where I'll be. Promise you won't follow." She hesitated. "Promise me."

"Okay."

"Good. Dial an ambulance for this place when you see me on the webcam, got it?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." And he was gone in a flash.

Molly gulped, quivering in apprehension. The monitor connected to Sherlock showed the reading: 27.45. She looked down at the address and raised her eyebrows. So _that _was why John never seemed to have enough money and why he happened to know where Sherlock was being held just by those odd words. She sank in a chair, knowing that Sherlock's life was entirely in John's hands now.

-.-

John got in a waiting taxi and called out.

"Kempton Park racehouse."

"Eh? But it ain't open today, sir. They're havin' a right old holiday in that place." He sounded like he was from up north.

"I need to go there." John insisted. The cabbie gave a resigned sigh and drove off down the road.

_I'm coming, Sherlock. Hang on._

He reopened the laptop.

27.32.

If the number went below twenty seven…

_If you aren't breathing when I get there, I swear I'll – _

John had always regretted gambling. It wasn't so bad now, more of a pastime to do when he was younger. With Sherlock's continuous bombardment of cases these days, he was never bored and the urge to stake everything was much less. But even now, there was a little part of him that was thrilled to go back to the horse racing stadium again. Once, he had been lucky and struck gold when he'd taken a risk on a wild card – a particular horse called Silver Blaze. That had been the main name that had immediately stood out to him on Sherlock's list. The others he knew about too, of course. If anything, they were more famous than his lucky horse – but none of this mattered now. The point was, he'd found out the place and needed to get there as fast as he could.

And he wasn't regretting gambling one bit just then. His reckless ways were helping him find his friend.

27.25.

He could see that Sherlock's body was struggling to continue. The detective was now only wheezing irregularly.

He glanced at his watch impatiently as the cabbie drew to a halt beneath a red light.

_Oh, Jesus. All that effort, and in the end it's not my bad deductions that are going to kill you. It'll be the glorious London traffic._

And then, with no warning, John was imagining what life without Sherlock would be like. What would he do? Would he spend the rest of his life in a similar fashion to those three years he'd thought Sherlock was gone? Barely going out, avoiding people deliberately, working at the doctors surgery, eating some cheap takeaway, sleeping… _nightmares_? Again? Every day, round and round until the day he died? Only this time, Sherlock wouldn't return to him. It would be permanent. John had been given a second chance and now he was going to lose it.

Fear gripped him.

He wouldn't be able to bear it if that happened. There was no way he'd be able to live with the guilt.

_Don't die, Sherlock._

"Here we are – told you it'd be shut."

John leapt out, flung some notes in the cabbie's outstretched hand and began to run forwards.

"Hey, John. You forgot your laptop."

He skidded to a stop and slowly turned around, his blood running cold and a calm fury boiling up.

The cabbie was Moriarty. And the consultant criminal seemed perfectly content staying exactly where he was...

**I had soooo much fun looking up funny horse names. Also, I can't remember if in the books if Watson ever gambles... I just kind of made it all up as I went along. What kind of fan am I?!**

**Kempton Park really exists - I researched it frantically today to get a location. I don't know long it would take to get there from St Barts.**

**I didn't expect to mention Moriarty again though!**


	11. Twenty Seven

**I'm getting near the end, at last. There's still definitely one more chapter after this, and possibly an epilogue to follow...**

John raised his gun and fired without a second thought.

Too late. Jim Moriarty had already wound the window up and he smirked as the bullets pinged harmlessly off the bulletproof glass. John took a menacing step forward.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The Irishman sounded playful as a red laser dot shone over John's chest.

As ever, the blonde haired man felt powerless against Sherlock's arch-enemy. He drew up the courage to speak and was proud that his voice stayed level.

"I should have known you were still alive."

The master criminal shrugged, as if it was no big deal. "Don't be too harsh on yourself. I wouldn't expect Sherlock's _pet _to work it out." John seethed in quiet anger. "Now, be a good boy and put your gun down. There's no need to have it." The gun went to his side instantly, almost as if the owner was unable to disobey the order. "That's much better." Moriarty continued. "How are you? It's been _sooo _long – three years, I believe." A small nod was his only reply. "You've matured since then. I can tell. Look at how _clever _you've been, working out where your dear friend is. I _am_ impressed." His head oscillated from side to side as he mockingly congratulated John.

"He's about to die. Let me through." John struggled to keep his voice flat.

"_About_? But _my _sensors are saying he stopped breathing ten seconds ago."

John felt the sweat dripping down. Was that a lie or not? He couldn't work the man out.

"You want him alive."

"_Do _I now? I'd much rather test you."

John couldn't tell if he was being foolish or brave as he spoke the deciding sentence.

"No. I'd rather test _you_."

He turned his back coolly on the cab and charged at the building at full pelt. Either Moriarty would give the order to shoot him, or he would prolong the 'game' and give his opponents a second chance.

From the taxi, Moriarty sat watching the army doctor struggling to climb over the gate. He laughed at the stupidity of ordinary people and snapped his fingers, as an order for the sniper to retreat. He was rather taking a liking to this little person.

"Until we meet again, John." He whispered. Casually, he picked up the laptop from the back of the cab and grinned when he saw the reading. If Sherlock was breathing now, he certainly was concealing it well.

26.89.

-.-

John landed on the other side of the gate, on all fours, on the grass. Without a moment to lose, he sprinted in through the thankfully unlocked front door, racing down the staircases, taking in the sign telling him that storage was three floors down. Sherlock had to be there, he figured. Every other room in the building was decorated – John knew enough about Kempton Park to figure that out. The room his friend was in was plain and white. He had to be down there.

_He stopped breathing ten seconds ago. _Moriarty's words rang in his ears. If that statement was true, it had been over a minute since that conversation so… it didn't bear thinking about.

In his haste, John tripped up at the top of a set of stairs and found himself tumbling down and landing, sprawled, on the hard wooden floor. The world went dangerously black for a second and blood trickled down from a wound in his head. Forcing himself up, he ran to a door – which he _knew _led into the food storage – and found it to be locked.

"SHERLOCK!" He screamed, knowing that this time there was no doubt the detective was in there. He shot the lock on the door again and burst in, adrenaline surging through him, "SHER –"

He cut off abruptly, strength all but deserting him as he took in his surroundings.

He had found the right room.

The walls were all whitewashed and behind the webcam, which perched on an elegant black tripod, there lay an assortment of animal feed bags, containing alfalfa and oats, along with bales of hay. The names of the horses Sherlock had blinked out were pinned to a wall in a neat decorated sheet of parchment, to commemorate their victories. The temperature of the place too was _cold_ – John was already noticing the goose bumps forming on his skin.

In front of the camera, there was a metal chair, securely fixed on the ground. And strapped to that same chair, held in place by several yards of rope coiled around him tightly, was Sherlock Holmes.

John dropped his gun and didn't even hear the clatter of it as it hit the ground. For what seemed like an age, he couldn't move. He could only stare in horror at what was going on. And Sherlock seemed _too_ still.

John managed to produce a sort of choking sound, before rushing over. He placed a trembling hand on one of Sherlock's wrists, amazed at how icy it was to the touch.

He couldn't detect a thing.

Was he too late? Was his best friend gone forever?

Time stretched as all of John's experience as a doctor evaporated, leaving him with nothing but despair.

**I have no idea how I'm going to write the next chapter :O**


	12. End Of The Countdown

**Sorry for the delay. I found it really hard to write this coherently. And I know John is very OOC. I've _tried _to change that... :O  
Last chapter... I'll probably write a sequel... thank you for reading! And a special thank you to Scottish Bluebell for brilliant ideas!**

He would not let Sherlock die.

In a trance, John obeyed his thoughts numbly as his professionalism kicked in again. He was so thankful to it. It meant that he no longer needed to panic. He knew what had to be done.

He unwrapped the rope as fast as he could, knowing that it wasn't fast enough, and dragged his friend off the chair and out of the room. An ambulance would be on its way, a steady voice reminded him coldly from somewhere within him. Molly would have phoned. He just needed to hurry up and act fast.

He finally pulled Sherlock through the door, into the warmer corridor. At least that meant Sherlock's body temperature had not choice but to increase. That, however, was not the priority at the moment.

Automatically, he began to rhythmically push down on the man's chest.

_This is any other patient. His life is not worth more than anyone else's._

"Don't. You. Dare. Be. Dead." The words came each compression, as John forced the blood to pump around Sherlock's body.

_Oxygen now. He's gone without oxygen for over four minutes. There's risk of brain damage._ John tilted Sherlock's delicate face back, sweeping the mop of curly black hair up and pinching the hawk-like nose. He leant in and put his mouth around the younger man's, blowing out steadily and watching the chest as it rose and fell. He tried again, with similar results. Not getting any response. Sherlock's lips were absolutely freezing. _Don't worry about that. He'll be warming up by now. _

He pressed Sherlock's chest again, thirty more times, willing his best friend to stay alive.

"There's no way you're gonna die on me."

He lost track of time. All he knew was that the longer it went on like this, the less likely Sherlock would ever wake up.

John was on autopilot. He knew that if he even attempted to think outside his skills as a doctor, if he paused to contemplate the repercussions Sherlock's death would have on him, he would break down and there would be no hope.

There was a sudden spasm from the patient and Sherlock gasped loudly, still unconscious. John closed his eyes in relief and allowed the monologue of thought in his head guide him through the next steps.

_They'll be a few broken ribs, no doubt. The main priority at the present is to get him warmed up. His body needs warmth, fast. Otherwise his internal organs will become damaged. He'll probably lose some toes and fingers. But if you act now, you can save most of them._

When the ambulance arrived, five minutes later, the paramedics would see Sherlock's blogger supporting his colleague, kneeling on the floor beside him, hugging him gently.

Later, John would insist that he was just trying to warm Sherlock up.

But that didn't explain why he kept a hold on Sherlock's hand all the way to the hospital.

-.-

When they told him that Sherlock had temporary, or even permanent, brain damage, John was expecting it.

He was sitting next to the comatose detective's hospital bed, three days later. He had barely left Sherlock's side at all, sleeping on a makeshift bed in the same room. He already knew about the frostbite – Sherlock had lost a finger on his right hand and two on his left – and he winced at how bad that would be for him. He was relieved that no organs had been badly harmed. But he had been expecting some sort of bad news and the brain damage came as no shock. He nodded sullenly as the hospital staff told him.

"Will he ever wake up?" Was the first question that came to mind.

The answer was less than satisfactory.

"At this stage, there is a fifty-fifty chance. We're sorry."

They left him looking at the floor.

Mycroft walked calmly into the room, without knocking, around two hours later. He was swinging his umbrella casually and gave his sleeping brother an irritated look as he nodded to John, drawing up a chair next to him.

"How are you?" He sounded almost bored and John was taken aback for a moment at how little concern he was displaying. Then he remembered: this was Mycroft Holmes. The one who had given his sibling's life story to Moriarty and nearly got him killed as a result.

"I'm alright." He muttered, refusing to make eye contact and instead focusing his attention on Sherlock. He was acutely aware at how angry he had been, and still was, at the man in the chair next to him. He tried to pretend that Mycroft was very distressed about Sherlock's welfare and was hiding it well. It was hard. "He… I suppose you know what happened?" Mycroft nodded. "And you know his condition now?" Another nod. John had nothing more to say. He didn't want to associate himself with Mycroft anymore, even if he was the British government and all that nonsense.

Mycroft seemed at ease with the tense silence. He twiddled his umbrella, regarding Sherlock coldly. Then he stood up.

"He always gets himself in so much trouble." He sighed.

"It wasn't his fault!" John cried out, exasperated.

"He associated himself with James Moriarty. What did you think would happen?"

"Don't you care about him at _all_?"

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. _Mycroft smiled wryly.

"Of course I do."

He turned around and walked slowly out of the room.

"Maybe you could show it every once in a while." John called after him. Mycroft didn't even pause for a second. He shut the door gently behind him.

John turned back to Sherlock.

"Wake up. Just… wake up."

And just like on all those films and TV shows he'd seen, Sherlock responded, his eyes flickering open. But it wasn't all good. He saw John… and just looked right through him, as though his flat-mate was a part of the background.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock didn't have concussion. He was wide awake. And yet he just lay there, looking around the room absently, his face devoid of expression.

Before the doctors scuttled in and conducted their own tests, John was well aware of what had happened. Sherlock was trapped in his own body, a shadow of his former self. He couldn't think, he couldn't speak. If it was permanent…

A nurse briskly informed him that there was no telling whether this trance-like state was going to stay for the rest of the young detective's life, or if slowly they could bring him back to his normal arrogant, pompous, knowing, brilliant self. Well, she didn't say that, but it was what John heard.

Brain damage and it was John's fault.

**That's quite a low note to end on. I'll maybe continue this story, but should I add more chapters to this, or start a new one?**


	13. I don't feel safe here

**Hello, everyone. I'm sorry for the long delay. Firstly, I was pretty busy and secondly, I was completely stuck for a while. I'm kind of getting a little bored with the story at the moment. I hope this isn't reflected in the writing... things may liven up soon!**

**As ever, thank you for the support - over 100 reviews!? I'm chuffed!**

_Part Two_

John slept for the first time in days.

Sherlock hadn't woken up yet and the doctor had been distraught with concern, asking at every opportunity whether his friend's condition had improved or not. But the tiredness had taken its toll and, still in his chair next to the bed, he slowly nodded off into a blissful dreamless sleep…

He woke with a start.

Sherlock was conscious again, staring up at him. For a moment, John saw true warmth in Sherlock's eyes. The next moment, his friend had shrunk down in his bed, cowering. John looked around, but he was the only other person in the room. Surely Sherlock wasn't afraid… of him?

"You alright?" He asked quietly, trying to stay as casual as possible.

Sherlock made a noise that was a cross between a whimper and a high pitched scream, pulling the cover up above his eyes. He mumbled, terrified:

"Don't hurt me… please don't…"

"Hey, Sherlock. It's me, John. You remember me, right? I would never hurt you." He had automatically spoken in a voice he would have usually reserved for children.

Sherlock timidly pulled the cover from his face and frowned.

"John?" He blinked and looked relieved. "John, thank goodness! Close the curtains. Quickly!"

Surprised, his flatmate obeyed him instantly and the room turned a shade darker.

"Too dark…" Sherlock muttered. "Turn the light on. Please." John did as he was asked and sat back on the chair. "Thank you."

"Are… Are you okay?"

"Of course I am; who says I'm not?" Sherlock's grey eyes frantically searched the room and he struggled up so he was sitting. "Are they in here? They're going to kill me…"

"No, no. Calm down a little. We're the only ones here."

"Really?" Sherlock looked at him hard. "Are you sure?"

John returned the gaze.

"I'm sure."

The hospitalised man relaxed a little. John, despite being relieved that the brain injury wasn't as bad as he had expected, hoped that the paranoia wouldn't continue. He wondered how they would cope at Baker Street if the detective was convinced that everyone was out to kill him. Would Sherlock be able to go to a crime scene without freaking out? Was his whole career at risk now? He didn't have long to think, however, because just then a nurse opened the door and walked in.

"Hello, Dr Watson. It's good to see you awake, Mr Holmes…" She faltered and trailed off as Sherlock began shaking and pulled the blanket way up above his head so only his fingers – excluding the missing ones – were visible.

"J-J-John… get her out…" He pleaded.

"She's here to help you, Sherlock." John turned to the nurse. "Sorry about that… he's a bit paranoid at the moment –"

"I'm _not_. John… please, get her out right now…"

"Listen. Nurse –" He read the name tag. "Nurse Williams is here to help you and –"

"No, no, get her out, no, no, no…"

"I'd better contact my senior advisor." The nurse said hurriedly, already on her way out. As soon as he heard the door click shut, Sherlock relaxed and lowered his sheet again. They both sat in an awkward silence and listened to the seconds tick past on an overhanging clock. John cleared his throat apprehensively and Sherlock jumped.

"I know it must be difficult. What's happened. And I understand why you're on the edge. It's just, you're in hospital and… well… no one wants to hurt you here." He stared at the ground.

"I want to go home." Something in Sherlock's voice caused John to look up sharply. Sherlock was begging him? "Please, can we just go home now?"

The older man managed a smile.

"That's a lot of pleases I've heard today."

Sherlock blushed, something John had never seen before.

"I'm glad it makes you happy." He replied quietly. "But I do mean it. I don't feel safe here."

"Yeah, sure. We'll go home as soon as we can. Promise."

Sherlock nodded sombrely, as if they were in grave danger by staying in the hospital for too long. The door opened and Mycroft entered. John wasn't too pleased. Mycroft visiting again so soon was a change from the customary cold distance treatment, but he still didn't look remotely concerned about his brother's welfare. Instead, he seemed almost annoyed by the whole affair.

John didn't bother standing up. Mycroft went over to the bed. Sherlock was shivering slightly and viewing his sibling in suspicion. Mycroft sighed and whispered something, unintelligible to John, in Sherlock's ear.

"Oh." Sherlock seemed to momentarily return to normal. "Yes, well done. Congratulations. We can speak later. In the meantime… John, can you close that door properly so they can't get me?"

Mycroft shook his head and he seemed riled.

"It's no way to treat –"

"STOP SCARING ME, MYCROFT! STOP IT!"

"I think you should leave." John piped up, alarmed at how loudly Sherlock was shrieking and cowering from his brother. "What the hell did you say to him?" He was angry too now and stood up, the look on his face making up for his small stature.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but he caught Sherlock's eye and stopped just in time, sighing dramatically.

"I'm sorry, John. We should talk at a better time." He glared at Sherlock. "I hope you get better soon, _dear _brother." The whole sentence was smeared with sarcasm.

He pushed past John, disgust written all over his face, replacing the usual ice-cool expression, and he stormed out of the room, banging the door.

"_What_…?" John was bewildered. "What did he say, Sherlock?"

"N-Nothing." Sherlock stammered. He looked away, no longer shaking in fear. "Can we go back to Baker Street now?"

John nodded absent-mindedly, still pondering over what had happened.

What was going on?


	14. Shut up, I'm trying to think

**Firstly, I'm very sorry this has taken so long to put up. I've just started sixth form and at the moment everything's in complete chaos - I do realise that a lot of you reading mainly read to escape from school/uni/work life, so I will try my best, but updates may take longer now.**

**So, this is written in first person for a change... It isn't that well written but... anyway. The plot is confusing even me at the moment!**

Guilt.

I have never experienced true guilt before. It is true that I was sorry for leaving John alone and grieving for three years. It is also true that a part of me regretted being so rude to Molly when she had offered her help. But –

_This_ is guilt on a different scale.

Mycroft knows. I could tell as soon as he walks into the room. Clever him. It was stupid and naïve of him though, to start explaining to John. He must have realised I wouldn't take this precaution light-heartedly. I wouldn't do this without thinking it through carefully.

I hate him. Mycroft, I mean, not John. I hate how right he is. He has every reason to hate me back now. But it's not Mycroft I'm worried about. I don't want _John_ hating me. And I also can't have him finding out anything just yet.

…

"Sherlock?"

I turned around so fast from my sitting position in the bed that John had to put his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

"Shut up, I'm trying to think." I replied automatically, irritated, realising too late that I was meant to sound scared, not annoyed. John frowned slightly.

"Are you feeling… more like yourself?" He sounded confused. And hopeful.

I needed a backup plan fast. John couldn't find out yet. I put on a smaller voice and sagged a little, bowing my head.

"I… I was thinking how to stop the people getting into our flat."

"People?"

"The ones trying to kill me, of course."

I was sounding so weak and tired I could have believed myself just then. I didn't like the idea of John thinking I was so pathetic, however.

My – what was he to me? My colleague? Friend? Friend. Definitely. I wondered how much longer that would last. Anyway, my friend sighed and he spoke slowly. His way of comforting me, I supposed.

"It's okay, Sherlock. No one's going to hurt you. We're going home in half an hour, remember?"

"Don't leave me, John."

I was good at acting and so far I had fooled John enough. But that sentence was too natural to be faked. If I ended up losing my best friend because of all this, at least I would have some time to see just how far his loyalties extended.

And of course, there was a valid reason why I was doing this. I had a plan and it would only work if John didn't know about it. I didn't want him in danger.

By reasoning out my actions like that, I began feeling less guilty.

"I wouldn't ever leave you." John answered, and I smiled.

-.-

We left for Baker Street three hours later. I was pretending to be too afraid to go in the ambulance, but I allowed John to guide me into the waiting taxi and put an arm around me as I shivered in 'fear'.

I honestly hated myself then. Abusing John's friendship.

But it had to be done.

I leant against him in the taxi and began streaming out something nonsensical about a ploy intended to kill Mrs Hudson. I reasoned it out fairly well, though I knew that of course it wasn't true, and I could sense that John would have believed me had he not presumed I was brain damaged.

So, on the outside I was scared stiff, like a child. And poor John believed that. On the inside, I was… bored? Not exactly – more eager to get to my laptop and track down Moriarty as soon as I could. If he thought I was a raving paranoid lunatic, all the better for me. I had the upper hand and this was not a game I intended to let the professor win.

"Sherlock, it's okay, honestly." John calmed me down in the middle of my scared babbling. I gulped and tried to look as if I was about to cry. It seemed to work and I studied John in secret fascination as he panicked momentarily, unsure what to do.

"Please… be strong for me…" I 'controlled' myself with what I imagined to be considerable effort and John breathed a sigh of relief. "We've arrived, Sherlock. You're completely safe here, I promise you."

"Really?" I whispered, clutching his arm.

"Yes." He replied patiently. I got a feeling that he would be good at handling children. And that he was treating me like one. That unnerved me a little. We were meant to be equals…

"I trust you." I stammered back. I watched his mouth curve up into a satisfied smile. It was so easy to please him sometimes.

I let John lead me up the steps and through our flat door. I stood in the corridor, twitching nervously, while he explained to a perplexed Mrs Hudson, recently back from a stay at her sister's, what the situation was. She came rushing over to me in worry and I hugged her hard.

"Thank goodness they haven't got you yet – I tried to tell John but he wouldn't listen – you must remember to bolt the door behind you – And don't answer the door for anyone – I wouldn't want them to get you –"

On and on I streamed out the monologue. My landlady could only look at me, concern all over her face.

"Thank you for the advice, dear." She said when I'd finished, her voice small. "I think this is so dangerous, the work you do. I don't like the thought of you and John getting hurt –"

And that, of course, gave me a whole new reason to start ranting on about how everyone was out to kill us including mentioning several conspiracy theories, which I'd had tonnes of fun thinking up in hospital.

Thankfully for Mrs Hudson, John was there and he gently persuaded me to stop talking and followed me upstairs.

With my back to him, for a brief second I was able to resume my normal expression. This was tiring work.

But now I could focus on destroying Moriarty's empire…


	15. I'm scared

**What? I've _updated_? Sorry for keeping you waiting... :(  
Don't worry, I'll try not to drag this story out for too long - I have to finish it!**

**Thank you for reading! Hopefully I'll update faster... soon...**

John could only watch in sympathy as his friend raced past him and shut the windows and drew the curtains. Seemingly satisfied at last, he then proceeded to go over to the sofa and lay down on his side, curled up impossibly small.

"Where's your gun?" He whispered. "John?"

"It's in my coat pocket." John said truthfully. "I'll protect you, don't worry."

"Good - good." John walked over and sat next to the cowering form. Sherlock very visibly flinched.

"You don't trust me?" The blonde haired man asked, disappointed.

Sherlock shook his head, which was awkward considering his foetal position.

"Of course I do. But I've got to stay alert."

"Sherlock, we're in our flat. Who's going to want to kill us?"

"Who?" Sherlock echoed, exasperated. "_Who_? What about all those criminals we've sent to jail. When they come out, the first thing they'll do is want revenge! And then there's the people envious of my talents -"

"I don't think Anderson would physically kill you."

"He probably would." Sherlock said on reflection. John had to suppress a laugh. "And even if he didn't, you're forgetting Moriarty!"

John's skin turned cold at the name.

"Do you know how he survived?" He asked finally.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock was shivering. "He's out to get me. That's all. Were you even paying attention back there when I got locked in that cold room?"

"Where do you _think_ I was?" John replied nastily. "Having coffee with Mike Stamford?"

"He's on their side."

"Mike? On Moriarty's side?"

"I swear it. He claims to teach at St Bart's but we've never seen him in progress. His IQ isn't enough to qualify him as a teacher. And then he claims to go to the pub but -"

"He does go to the pub! I've seen him!"

"You aren't always with him. I'm saying he's sending information about us back to his master."

John was desperately afraid that Sherlock was losing his mind totally.

"Are you staying there all day?"

"Yes. If they see my shadow against the window, they'll shoot."

"You didn't have a problem before with it."

"Things have changed!" Sherlock argued. "Before I was stupid - ignorant. Now I can see everyone's real intentions."

"Can you?" John sighed. "Anyway, I'm getting milk -"

"You can't leave."

"Why not?"

"I'm scared."

John didn't reply for a long time. He just stared at the floor. Finally, he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder gently. The detective's wide eyes stared up at him. John looked so sad.

"John?"

"I'm alright." Clearly he wasn't. He was getting emotional over Sherlock's current disposition. He cleared his throat. "I'll be one minute. Okay? I promise."

"What if they kill you?" Sherlock mumbled. At that moment, he was hating himself for being so awkward.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock nodded. John still had his on his shoulder. "Then trust me when I say that no one will attack either of us and if they do, I'm armed."

Again, Sherlock nodded, gulping.

"I'll literally be five minutes. Your mobile's here. Mrs Hudson's downstairs if you want anything."

"Could... Could I borrow your gun?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"No." John said emphatically. "I'm sorry. But at the moment, I just can't."

Sherlock's face fell.

"You don't trust me?"

"Of course I do. But not with a gun. Not yet. Five minutes?"

"... Okay."

He heard the front door close as John left and lay back, relaxing at last.

Laptop.

He grabbed John's, only to find the password changed. Snarling in frustration, he tried a couple of the more obvious words, but found that he couldn't log on. He usually could and that annoyed him.

Eventually, he gave in and wandered into his own bedroom, getting his own laptop. He began surfing the Internet, but John was already back, by the sounds of his footsteps.

"John?" He called, pretending to be worried, stuffing the laptop underneath a cushion and curling on the sofa once more. "Is... Is that y-you?"

"Yes, don't worry. I got the milk. And you should _really_ consider eating." John emerged from the stairs, panting very slightly. He hadn't wasted any time getting what he wanted.

"Thank you." Sherlock said stiffly, sitting up a little, looking around make sure that they were alone.

"For what...?"

The detective wanted to say so much, but knew it would sound out of character, even when he was acting like this.

"For being quick."

John suppressed a laugh.

"For once I thought you were thanking me for doing the shopping."

"No, I don't plan on saying that for a long time, John."

John tried to look angry, but could only smile.

"I'm glad you sound okay. I know it must be hard..." His voice dropped and his face darkened. "I remember when I came back from Afghanistan. It was hard for me. I thought everyone was out to get me. I know how it feels - sorry." He straightened up, feeling a bit foolish.

Sherlock was lost for words. Here he was, pretending that he was paranoid when the man he was betraying had experienced the feeling for real. He'd never felt more ashamed.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine. I was... just thinking about what you said."

"I'm glad you listened for once." John hesitated. "You haven't eaten since..." He trailed off. Neither of them wanted to remember the horrific events that led up to this moment. "You hungry?"

"No."

"You have to eat."

"What was the point of asking me, if you're going to insist?"

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor - Jesus, I'm a human being! Anyone can see that you desperately need something."

"It'll be poisoned." Sherlock said flatly.

John gulped.

"No." He murmured. "It isn't. Please believe me."

Their eyes locked and it was Sherlock who sighed in defeat and looked away first.

"Fine. But if I collapse..."

"I'm a doctor." John repeated firmly. "And I'm always here." For you. He thought. But didn't add it.

"Right."

John made a sandwich and handed it over. Sherlock ate it, wondering how long it would be until things could go back to normal...


	16. Fifty Shades Of Grey

**Make way for the shortest chapter so far! I'll make it longer next time...**

It was evening.

All day, Sherlock had lain on the sofa, waiting to be left alone.

_Lie on the sofa, lie to John..._

And he'd been difficult too. He'd convinced John not to go to work and had made him stay in the same room for nearly five hours straight. He was starting to like the constant attention.

John was reading a book, apparently absorbed in it, in his chair a few feet away. He obviously wasn't enjoying the story and seemed preoccupied with something else, because he hadn't turned the page for eleven minutes. Sherlock was hurting from staying in the same position for so long – on other days he loved sitting still, but now he had important issues to sort out. He was restless.

Something in his manner must have given him away, because John shut his book and looked at him carefully.

"You alright? Do you want to go out?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Why would I? I'd be gunned down straight away."

"Just asking." John sighed and ended up yawning. "You're fidgeting a lot."

"I was about to ask you the same thing. What book were you reading?"

"Um..." The doctor glanced at the cover. "Fifty Shades Of Grey. You heard of it? It's a huge hit and -"

"And that explains why you're so disinterested in it? You couldn't even remember the name."

John shrugged.

"So...?"

"So you were preoccupied with something else. It's agitating you. What is it?"

"Nothing... I need to sleep."

Something in John's tone, the way he replied to fast, the way he shifted his gaze, told a different story.

"John?"

"No. I'm fine. Honest. Now, I really want to go to bed now, do you plan on keeping me up _all_ night?"

"N-No. But I don't want to be alone."

John thought for a second.

"I tell you what. I'll sleep on the floor in your bedroom, okay?"

Sherlock hadn't considered John saying that. And he wanted to be alone. Now he had reached a dilemma.

"Really?" He decided to play along as John nodded. "Will you be comfortable?"

"Yes, I'll bring my mattress."

"Will that be enough?"

"If you're going to ask me to sleep in the same bed as you, then thanks, but no way."

Sherlock chuckled inwardly but managed to keep a poker face.

"No. I wasn't implying that."

"I'll get it ready, then."

John walked out and for once Sherlock let him without complaining. He looked around the room lazily, acutely aware of how much he had missed the place when he had been held hostage. The memories seared through him of the cold and dark and he gulped, suddenly understanding just how small he was in this world.

He closed his eyes, trying to delete the memory, but it persisted and he gave in, his vision returning.

That was when he saw it.

His violin.

He looked at his hands, frowning. His forefingers on both were gone. And his little finger on his left hand.

_Dammit._

He stood up anyway and picked his instrument up with intense care. He wanted to play it so badly that he felt an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

_I'm starting to go soppy. First I missed the flat, now my violin… next thing I'll be thinking I missed John!_

_But you did. _A small voice at the back of his head reminded coldly. Sherlock pointedly ignored it. Emotions got you nowhere. And yet –

He had to play his violin…


	17. I can't play it, John

**Sorry for the delay - I accidentally deleted this so had to re-do it :( There will probably be three more chapters... it's dragging on a bit too much for my liking.  
Thank you for reading!  
**

John had just transferred his mattress into Sherlock's bedroom when he heard an awful screeching sound coming from the main room, as if a pair of cats was drowning. Heart in his mouth, he stopped by the closed door and listened.

The sound stopped and there was a terrifying silence.

Hesitantly, the army doctor opened the door a crack and peered out. Sherlock, unaware of his presence, was sitting on his chair, his knees drawn high and his head down. He was trembling slightly.

John cleared his throat nervously to announce his arrival, but Sherlock didn't even look up – which was odd, he thought on reflection, considering the paranoia.

"You alright?" He wandered over, trying to act casual and failing miserably.

The detective lifted his head and stared at John bleakly. The doctor visibly relaxed as his fears were dashed away. Thank God Sherlock wasn't crying.

"I can't play it, John." Even his voice was trembling. Maybe he was going to cry after all…

"Sherlock," John started patiently. "You're the most intelligent man I know. You'll find a way."

"I –" Sherlock steadied himself. "I suppose."

"I'll help you." He sat on the opposite chair. "The thing is, you're used to playing it in a different way. That's all. Once you practise, you'll get the hang of it." Sherlock still stared at the floor. "You can do it. Really." His voice was quieter now. Their eyes met for a moment and it seemed an age before Sherlock finally nodded almost imperceptibly. "Good. We can start tomorrow, alright? First, though, we really need some sleep."

He stood back up, and patted Sherlock quickly on the shoulder, yawning. Sherlock stood up without a word and followed behind, still painfully aware that he was shaking. It took him a moment to realise that he was meant to be paranoid so he got onto all fours and began crawling across the room. A questioning look from John was all he needed to start explaining.

"It's in case they see my silhouette from the window."

John nodded and said nothing. The detective continued crawling until the hallway and then stood up, flat against the wall, holding John back behind him. Tentatively, he looked out and seeing that the coast was clear, ran into his bedroom, pulling his friend along too.

"Sherlock – Sherlock! We're safe. It's fine." Sherlock was shifting the chest of drawers towards the door, ready to barricade it. John put a hand on his arm to stop him, worried. "No one's coming."

"Moriarty." Sherlock replied briefly, inching the furniture forwards so it covered the only entrance – and exit – completely. He sat down against it and sighed. "He could try to break in."

"But why –"

"For crying out loud, John! You saw how he snatched me in the street, in plain sight! If he can do that, he can come in here!" Sherlock shouted, standing up and stomping over to the window, drawing the curtains sharply and turning the light off.

The room was completely dark now.

From one corner, John spoke softly.

"I won't let him get you again, Sherlock. Even if it kills me." Sherlock was alarmed at how upset he sounded. In the gloom, he allowed himself to drop the pretence of being scared and felt for the bed, sitting on it.

In silence, he listened to his blogger continue.

"I don't think you understand how I felt. I thought you were d-dead. And it was just like the last time. With the Fall. But – But I know I can't go through that again."

The younger man closed his eyes, thinking hard but not knowing how to respond. In the end, he simply said: "I won't leave you. Go to sleep now."

It was blunt. Too blunt. Too little emotion.

In the dark, John wanted to kick sense into his best friend. Maybe then he would understand the pain and sorrow he'd had to endure. Or maybe he should get kidnapped himself and fake his own death and –

But would Sherlock react the same way if it were him?

He probably wouldn't care. Not the way he sounded now.

Defeated, John lay on the mattress on the floor and pulled the cover up over his head.

"John?"

"Be quiet, I'm trying to sleep."

Sherlock clambered into his own bed and shut his eyes, willing the day to come quickly…

-.-

He woke up, screaming out, from a nightmare where he had watched Moriarty drag John into his bedroom and shot him with a grin on his face.

There was a thud and a muffled curse from below and the next moment, the light came on.

John looked at him groggily, in concern.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Nightmare. That's it."

He was sweating and shaking.

"Would you like some water?"

"No." The drawers were blocking the door anyway. "Sorry for waking you."

John suddenly remembered that he was still angry at his flatmate.

"Right. Good night then."

Sherlock nodded and John turned the light back off. He was asleep in seconds. The same could not, however, be applied to the man in the bed. For around an hour, he just lay there, then felt so alone that he decided he had to turn to John again. To make sure he was still there.

He got down from his bed and felt his way over to the mattress where his friend lay, sound asleep.

"John…" Sherlock whispered.

"Mmph…?"

"Budge up, will you?"

John rolled over a little, blindly obeying. Sherlock carefully lay down next to him and drifted off within moments.


	18. We've cornered Moriarty

**Thank you for reading! I'm sorry for updating so slowly, I'm really busy - as**** if that's an excuse ;)**

John woke up.

A glance at the clock informed him that it was six in the morning. A glance at the window told him that the sun had risen. A glance to his right confirmed that a consultant detective was sleeping next to him.

John nearly cried out in surprise, but common sense kicked in on time and he stayed quiet. Sherlock was cradling him gently in his sleep, both arms around the doctor's midriff. Although he would have been the last to admit it, John actually found it very comfortable.

But he couldn't stay there forever. If Sherlock woke now, there would be far too much tension, and tension was the last thing either of them wanted. Sherlock was already scared enough after all, poor man. It must be difficult for him. Unable to trust anyone. John missed the old detective so badly that it hurt. He wanted to see Sherlock poking fun at Anderson and solving those cases and just being brilliant. He missed that detective so much.

Sighing, he cast a fond look at his friend, wishing he would get better soon, before carefully disengaging himself from Sherlock's arms and standing up. He stretched. Another long day was about to take place. The effort of helping Sherlock was draining him physically as well as mentally.

Silently, he turned to the door - and found it was still blocked by the drawers.

"Dammit." He whispered. Now he couldn't leave without making a racket and inevitably waking his flatmate up from his desperately needed slumber.

Resignedly, he sat on his bed and flicked through the rest of Fifty Shades of Grey, but he still couldn't concentrate on it.

Then...

"John?"

And the day began.

-.-

The days turned into weeks, and Sherlock still refused to leave the house. He did, however, agree to let John travel freely, to some extent, as long as his phone was switched on. In return for this liberty, John had to stay content with the detective not allowing anyone else in to see him, other than Mycroft.

When Mycroft arrived, John was leaving for work. He'd had to switch to part-time in the doctor's surgery, as he didn't want Sherlock to be on his own for too long.

"Mycroft. How are you?"

"John." The elder Holmes nodded. "I'm fine. You?"

"On my way out. Sherlock's upstairs if you want to..."

"Of course. I didn't come all this way for nothing."

John left Mycroft and went to work - Sherlock wouldn't have a problem with his brother there, they'd spoken quite a lot in the past month or so.

The man in question was practising his violin as Mycroft entered. With John's help, he had found an easy position to hold his beloved instrument and had adjusted his fingering so one finger had to take the place of two others as well. Admittedly, it was hard work and progress was slow, which frustrated him. But as his brother entered, the sound wasn't too bad.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

They regarded each other curtly as the younger brother put away the violin.

"You can sit if you want." Sherlock pointed at the chair. Then he sneered as Mycroft made his way over. "But maybe you could do with standing. Burn off a few more calories."

Mycroft was not amused.

"That's not why I'm here." He sat down and looked at Sherlock coldly, who sat in the opposite seat. "I pity Dr Watson."

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's of no concern to you. I'll deal with it when the truth comes out."

"If he leaves you, dear brother, don't come crying to me."

"I'll make sure of it. Now. What's the news?"

Mycroft dropped his voice.

"We've cornered Moriarty. Led him into a trap. And that trap is here, ten-thirty, tonight."

"Baker Street?"

"It was the most convenient place. Why are you so concerned?"

"John."

"Ah." The visitor leant back in his chair. "Just make him go away for one night."

"He won't. He's too worried about me."

Mycroft smirked cruelly.

"Undoubtedly. Caring is not an advantage. You understand now?"

"Yes." Sherlock was growing impatient. "So your men are going to hide in the flat at the designated time, in case things go wrong."

"Correct."

"So all I need to do is...?"

"Talk to him. Distract him. For long enough so we can seal any exits. Then we'll pounce."

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft, who never wasted words unless they were necessary, stood up to go.

"Good luck with that violin."

Sherlock nodded. It was the closest Mycroft got to sympathy. He watched his brother leave the room and listened to the door click gently downstairs.

Ten-thirty.

How was he going to get John away?


	19. Drink your tea, John

**Hello, again! It's been an incredibly long time since I last wrote something. My fault entirely.  
I will try to update faster from now on, but unfortunately can't make any promises :(**

**And I have to say - Happy Birthday Sherlock!**

**I hope you enjoy reading.**

_Your brother's a fool, thinking he could trick me._

_But I'll be here on time. I like a bit of fun._

_Can't wait to see Johnny boy._

_J Moriarty_

_xxx_

Sherlock had barely read the message when he heard the heavy footsteps of John returning from work. He hated having to do this, but his friend had to be kept out of this, at all costs.

The man in question was grumbling to himself about the rain. He came into view, shaking the last drops of water of his sodden coat out onto the carpet. He was probably in a bad mood.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, not unkindly.

"Whatever."

He was definitely in a very bad mood. Now wasn't the best time to do this, but the opportunity was there and waiting. Sherlock seized it. He went into the kitchen at once, leaving John to curse the weather and several irritating work colleagues.

Sherlock made the tea, humming to himself.

John plonked himself onto the sofa and grabbed his laptop.

"Have you been hacking in again?" He called out, riled.

"Just in case."

"Of _what_?"

"In case someone's threatening you or something."

"Oh." John had nearly forgotten that Sherlock was suffering from paranoia. "Of course."

Sherlock tipped a couple of sleeping pills into the tea and then added a heap of sugar to disguise the flavour. He walked back over casually and handed the steaming mug over. John smiled in gratitude, trying not to act mean to Sherlock just because he was frustrated. He took a tentative sip and pulled a face.

"Sugar… again." He reminded weakly.

Sherlock looked genuinely hurt.

"I… I forgot."

"Never mind." John replied quickly. He drank a bit more of the tea and then put it on one side. "It tastes a bit… I dunno… strange. You haven't dumped an experiment in here?"

Sherlock looked offended.

"Never!"

John chuckled and Sherlock took his usual place on the opposite chair. There was a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"Anyway, I think you should try to get outside a bit –"

"I don't really think –"

"Sherlock…" John warned, before yawning and rubbing at his eyes.

"Drink your tea, John."

"Christ, I'm sleepy." Already, his eyes were growing heavy. He frowned. "Why do I –" Another yawn. "Feel so… tired?"

Sherlock had drugged people before, but never to John and he felt a sudden twist of guilt.

"Drink your tea. It might help."

"I'm not thirsty…" John slurred. His head drooped down and he pulled it back up sharply, alarmed. "Sher… Sherlock… did you…?"

"I'm sorry, John. I had to. Moriarty's on his way. I need you out of danger."

"You're…" John stood up, holding onto the chair for support. He swayed. "He… isn't… you're being para… paranoid…"

"No." The detective sighed. "I was making it up. I'm not paranoid. I just had to… pretend to be." It was painful to say. John stared at him, looking thoroughly betrayed.

"Why…?" His legs buckled and Sherlock rose out of his chair, holding onto his flatmate. "Sher… Sherlock…"

"I'm really sorry. Sleep now."

John slumped against him, the drug in his tea working fast. Sherlock held him close for a few moments, overcome by shame at what he'd done. Finally, he carried John into his bedroom and put the covers on him, pushing aside his feelings and focusing on the task at hand.

-.-

10:30.

Sherlock sat in his chair, waiting. He knew that the sleeping pills wouldn't keep John knocked out for ever and was alarmed, and then annoyed, at how little had actually been drunk. Hopefully, though, it would be enough –

He sat up, alert. Footsteps. He frowned. Two pairs. Jim Moriarty was coming up the stairs. But this time, he wasn't alone. The detective sighed and stood up, as his nemesis and another man entered the room. Sherlock couldn't help but seethe when he recognised those cold eyes and that burly frame.

"Moran." He spat. "What are you doing here?"

The gunman held up his latest weapon – an assault rifle.

"Pretty, ain't it?"

"He's my friend, Sherlock." Jim Moriarty drawled sarcastically. "And speaking of friends, isn't Dr Watson joining us?"

"He's gone out with one of his friends." Sherlock replied instantly.

Moriarty shrugged.

"A pity. Any way, I thought you were going to start screaming at the sight of me, from what I've heard. Paranoia, I was told…"

"No." Sherlock held up his hands, revealing his missing fingers. "I wanted to throw a small surprise for you. After what you did to me."

Moriarty pulled a mock-surprised face.

"Really? I would _never _have guessed."

Sherlock was feeling slightly uncomfortable. Things were not going to plan. Why had Moriarty brought along an accomplice? It was the last thing he had wanted to happen. With Moriarty alone, the could have had an undisturbed conversation, but with the gun trained on him, a way to get rid of his archenemy once and for all was becoming increasingly difficult to find.

Moriarty clicked his fingers and Sebastian Moran readied his gun.

"Now Sherlock." The evil genius smirked. "Give me one good reason not to shoot."


	20. That's low, Sherlock

**Hello, again! Nearly finished the story now - I think there will be two more chapters after this.  
If you have time, please review! It would make my day. But thank you for reading anyway!**

His head was pounding. He felt as if he was falling into a terrible abyss, from which he would never return. He had to… Something was wrong. Something had happened. But… he couldn't remember. He had to wake… up… Was he asleep? Or dead? Or… _tea_. He'd had… tea. And then… And then…

Sherlock.

Remembering that name alone was enough to jolt him back out of sleep. Eyes heavy, he tried lifting his hands and turning over – and promptly fell out of bed. He groaned. The room was swirling and his thoughts were jumbled around as though they'd taken a ride in a washing machine. He felt sick. He wanted to do nothing more than surrender to the darkness.

The sound of hazy voices brought him back into consciousness.

"…Really think… you fell… didn't have a…"

John stumbled up, leaning against the bed for support. With an effort, he reached into his drawer for his gun. But it wasn't there.

The world seemed terribly compressed somehow and for a moment, he was terrified he was going to pass out.

"N-No…" He whispered, blinking hard, trying to shake off the drug.

Sherlock needed him. He had to help…

His legs buckled and he stumbled onto the carpet, groaning, on all fours. He bowed his head, trying to compose his thoughts and himself, but only succeeding in feeling more dizzy.

Finally, he could bear to crawl along the floor, close to collapsing, out of his room and into the next.

Voices distant, shapes blurry.

But he could make out Sherlock, standing with his back to him. Facing him, was the consultant criminal himself – Jim Moriarty. John swayed on the carpet. Moriarty must have seen him there, but he made no attempt to tell the unaware Sherlock that.

"I…Watson…" Moriarty continued. John just couldn't make sense of what was being said. Now, suddenly, he noticed another figure, holding an object that looked suspiciously like a gun. And then he saw that Sherlock was also holding a gun behind his back – _John's_ gun.

_At least… the idiot's… remembered that._ He managed to think.

Now he was stuck. He couldn't go back the way he came, because Moriarty would no doubt do something to stop him. He couldn't jolly well stay where he was either though. The only way, he tried to think rationally in his confused tangle of a mind, was to go forwards. Sherlock needed to know he was there, or his enemy would have the advantage.

"Sherlock…" He mumbled, only it didn't come out how he wanted it to. It was all slurred.

Moriarty smiled, shaking his head slightly. John saw Sherlock stiffen slightly. Slowly, the detective turned around. He said nothing, but his looked mortified. He took a step towards his friend and then faced the two men again, defensive.

"You leave him out of this."

"Sherlock…" John groaned. "What's… happening?"

Suddenly, he understood the full extent of the situation. Jim Moriarty – who had maimed, tortured and caused immense mental suffering to his flatmate – was standing in the room. John grabbed onto the bookcase and struggled up. Sherlock glanced at him, shocked.

"What are you doing?" He hissed angrily. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

"He… Him…" John pointed at the criminal mastermind unsteadily. "He nearly… killed you…"

Moriarty burst out laughing.

"You _drugged _him? That's low, Sherlock. Even for you."

Sherlock ignored him.

"John…" He was pleading. _Stay out of this. Please, just stay out of this._

But John was too angry and could barely hear him anyway.

In the next moment, several things happened.

In a sudden burst of energy, John lurched forwards, past Sherlock, making a threatening move in Moriarty's direction. Jim smiled and calmly clicked his fingers. Sebastian Moran raised his gun. John didn't seem to notice. Sherlock did. And looked horrified. Sebastian aimed his gun.

Fired.

And John crumpled to the ground.


	21. Please, stay with me

**One chapter left after this! Thank you for reading. I'm not sure how to end... you may already know that endings are a definite weak spot that I have.  
I hope you like this chapter :D**

Sherlock yelled out in horror, whipping the gun out from behind his back and firing shot after shot into Sebastian Moran. The assassin clutched his chest, coughing out blood, and fell to his knees.

"J-Jim…" He stretched out his hand feebly, with a pleading look towards his master. Moriarty frowned down at him, unimpressed, and turned away.

"Sorry, Seb. But it's the end of the road, I'm afraid. I'll be seeing you in hell."

Sebastian gasped and fell flat on his face, his last breath rattling through his body.

Sherlock was crouching next to John, shaking the unmoving man gently, face paper white in shock, unable to tear his eyes from the blood seeping through the clothes. Stunned, he finally looked up at his nemesis, horrified, too surprised to be angry.

"I… you…" He stammered. Moriarty grinned widely.

"Sorry about that. Collateral damage."

At that callous remark, the detective snapped out of his dazed trance at last. He snatched his gun up and reloaded it with one swift movement, straightening and stepping forwards so that he was head to head with the criminal. The gun in his hand pressed into the area above Moriarty's heart.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Don't you worry, poor Sebby knew better than to kill your pet. He aimed slightly off." He seemed extremely calm given the circumstance.

Sherlock grabbed his collar menacingly.

"You've played this game for too long. People have suffered. People have died. And that… what you just did. You went too far."

With that, he squeezed the trigger – cherishing the look of surprise on Jim's face. And he would cherish the memory for a _very _long time.

His nemesis fell, dead instantly. He was lucky Sherlock hadn't tortured him first. But the man in question was crouching beside his friend, checking for signs of life. He got one – thank goodness – and quickly dialled Lestrade's number on his mobile.

"What do you want this late?" Came a mumbled voice.

"I need an ambulance at Baker Street for John. He's been shot. Badly."

Sherlock hung up at once, not wanting to answer any unwanted questions. He gently assessed the wound. The bullet had missed all the major organs, but John's chest was bleeding profoundly. Sherlock put one hand firmly over it, trying to stem the flow of red. He was no doctor, but it seemed like the best thing to do.

"John?" He whispered, actually pleading. "Can you hear me? Please, stay with me."

With an effort, John's eyes flickered. He gazed at his flatmate numbly. The sedative still hadn't worn off, which made the injury all the more worse. He frowned.

"W-Wha…?" He tried to sit up and gasped in pain, involuntary tears springing to his eyes. "N-ya…"

"Stay still." Sherlock ordered. John lay limply, his breathing shallow.

"Sher…"

"I'm here. An ambulance is coming. I'm trying to stop the blood flow by putting pressure on the wound. Am I doing the right thing?" Only Sherlock Holmes would dare ask such a practical question to a man who was so clearly in agony. His voice was relatively calm, but there was a slight tremor that John probably noticed.

"Um… Argh…! Y-Yes… I th-think… God… Oh Jesus Christ… Are you... using… your h-hands?"

"Yes."

"N-Not… the b-best…" John's voice faded away and he blinked hard, gasping. "D-Don't… worry…"

"I'm not. Of course I'm not." Sherlock replied too quickly, shaking. He pushed down a bit harder and the doctor winced, squirming slightly.

"Sh – Sher –"

With his free hand, Sherlock clasped John's.

"It's alright. Just focus. Keep your eyes fixed on –" _No. Not that line again. _"Just… Just keep on looking at me. Okay? You've got to stay with me."

John let out a cry of pain that nearly tore Sherlock's heart apart when he heard it.

"All… those t-things…" He whispered. "… That… I – I wanted to s-say…"

"No. John. Not now –"

"P-Please… Listen…"

"N-No. You _can't_. You're _not_. I – I won't let you..." Sherlock shook hard, holding back tears. This couldn't be goodbye. Not now.

"I – I d-didn't… hah, Oh G-God… hah… Sher – I didn't tell you…"

Sherlock shook his head blankly.

"Don't say anything. Please. I – I already know."

John frowned at him uncertainly, tears of affliction rolling down his cheeks.

"You're… c-cryi–" He began, startled.

"N-No. You'll be fine. I p-promise."

The wail of sirens hit their ears. Both of them stared at one another, not daring to look away. Lestrade ran into the room, followed by three paramedics.

How they ever got Sherlock away from the blonde haired man, neither of them would ever know. The next hour was a blur of flashing blue lights and orange shock blankets and calming words from Lestrade. And shock and pain and...

-.-

It was hours before a doctor approached Sherlock in the waiting room, having just been in surgery. The detective's hands and coat were still stained with John's blood. The medical man walked over cautiously.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock straightened, standing up, pale.

"Is he alright?"

"We've got him sedated. His injury was severe – and for a time life threatening – but we're hopeful he'll make a full recovery."

"I want to see him."

"He's asleep… And visiting hours are over, sir…"

"That's alright. My brother Mycroft Holmes will sort that out." Sherlock strode past him. He'd already deduced where John's rough location would be.

"Sir…" Sherlock turned around and dug in his pocket.

"Here." He passed over a card. "Can I see him now?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I didn't realise…"

Sherlock snatched the card and walked away. He loved pick pocketing Mycroft more than he cared to admit.

Walking swiftly, he asked a nurse for the ward number and soon arrived, opening the door. He virtually raced to his blogger's side and sat on a chair, waiting for him to wake up.

_I nearly got you killed. Please forgive me._


	22. It was my duty

**So, this is the last chapter. My endings really are unsatisfactory, so I made a huge effort, but after the last line I just feel as though I have to add another and another...  
Still, I hope you enjoyed reading this story and please let me know what you think. Thank you for alerts/favourites/reviews!**

John woke. His chest was only throbbing slightly, so he assumed he'd been given painkillers. The room was dark. Night. Sherlock lay slumped in a chair, drawn up next to his bed, sound asleep.

His hand was in John's. The doctor squeezed it gently, reassuring himself that he had indeed survived being shot. He closed his eyes again, comfortable.

"John?" Came a low whisper. Sherlock had woken up. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes." John looked up at him. His friend seemed tired and oddly concerned. On seeing John awake, he relaxed slightly. There was a strained silence, broken only when Sherlock pulled his hand away sharply, realising the implications of his absentminded action.

"Um…" He reddened a little and averted his gaze. "I'm glad you're okay."

John frowned.

"What happened? Why was Moriarty there?"

Sherlock looked back at him, suddenly angry.

"It was part of my plan. I had him where I wanted. I was so close to tracking down all his henchmen. And then you _had _to come along and ruin it! Just five more minutes – but no. You _had _to turn up. You're lucky to have survived, you realise? You're lucky you didn't get me shot too! What were you thinking?"

He broke off, feeling ashamed. He knew already that of course it wasn't John's fault, but he had to channel the blame somewhere.

"I'm sorry." John sounded thoroughly miserable, matching the expression of dismay on his face perfectly. "I… I didn't _know_." Sherlock looked pretty guilty now. "Wait. Hang on. _I'm _apologising? It's _you _who should be! You pretended you were paranoid, you said you had brain damage, and I – the fool I was – I _believed _you! For God's sake, I even pitied you! And you lied! And you drugged me! And then you expected me not to interfere when I woke up! And now you _blame _me for what's happened! I trusted you." His voice had risen to a shout, but now it dropped to a murmur. Sherlock hung his head. "You told me you'd never lie to me again. After The F-Fall. And I believed you. Now tell me – where does that leave _me_?"

"I… I had to fake it. Or Moriarty would have believed I was weakened."

"That's no excuse." John's voice was shaking and he struggled to control it. "No excuse… for what you've put me through."

"I shouldn't have blamed you –" Sherlock started weakly.

"You can say that again." His chest was really hurting. He winced. Sherlock noticed, of course.

"Are you alright?" He leant forwards slightly, but a withering look from the other man stopped him from advancing further.

"I'll be fine."

"I won't lie again –"

"You said that last time!" John exploded, trying to sit up but finding he was too weak to. He stifled his sobs, but the tears gave away his anguish. Sherlock couldn't speak. He didn't know what to say. How to make things better. "You caused me so much p-pain! I hate you! I hate you, Sherlock!" He was borderline hysterical.

Sherlock's heart felt as if it was being crushed. John had never said those words out loud before. And they genuinely stung. On impulse, he grabbed John's hand again, keeping it steady as John tried to wrench himself free.

"Don't touch me! _D-Don't_!"

Sherlock held firm and finally John relented, going limp, breathing unevenly, sobbing. They stayed like that for a few minutes until the blonde haired man calmed down considerably. With his free arm, he wiped at his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

The detective stroked his hand soothingly and cleared his throat.

"I meant to thank you."

"W-What?" John asked, far more gently than earlier.

"You saved my life, back when Moriarty kidnapped me and nearly froze me to death."

"Oh." All that seemed to have happened so long ago. "That was nothing. It was my duty. As a doctor and a friend –" He trailed off uneasily.

"John?" Sherlock was hesitant to bring up the topic again. "Are you going to move out?"

His blogger frowned, thrown by the question.

"Well, I don't know…" He thought for a while. Sherlock waited for an answer, petrified. "No…?" He said uncertainly at last. Then, with more conviction: "No. I won't. I can't." Sherlock blinked, unprepared. Not now. You're still my friend and I know you meant well. I know _you_. What I said just then... I had to get it out. But I'm staying put now and I'll always be there for you, you understand?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly and smiled.

"Although…" John continued. "You might have to do your share of the shopping from now on."

Sherlock groaned, unable to stop the corners of his mouth lifting up.

"What? That's hardly fair." But inside, he was filled with relief.

-.-

John was discharged from hospital three weeks later. Sherlock tried his best to behave and be polite and remember to clear up after his experiments. He succeeded for less than five hours.

But he never once complained when it was his turn to but the milk. If that was the price he had to pay for a true friendship, he was more than happy to comply with it.

**The End.**


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